Sorry I'm Late
by Hypnos897
Summary: Agents Mulder and Scully investigate a stolen manuscript, an ancient and mysterious document thought to be a fraud, from the Yale University special collections wing. Mulder is subsequently kidnapped by a cult leader, Billy Newbold, who believes the manuscript foretells the future. There is a mad rush to rescue Mulder and uncover the significance of the manuscript.
1. I

History is written in small moments that accumulate down a gradual slope, gaining speed as the force of decision and realization give it weight: picking up the people, actions, and consequences along its path of seeming inevitability; shaping the fabric of reality that is human civilization - military regimes gain power through a coup d'etat, thereby freeing the citizenry of a type of oppression only to be substituted with another, but what if this momentum was supplanted by the conscious decisions of a chosen few rather than the democratically elected - men that lived in the shadows, contriving a shape and path for this juggernaut; thereby, dictating a reality that encompassed decades of strategy to encircle the globe under a warm blanket of ignorance that affected all manner of civilization regardless of race, religion, or socioeconomic status? This was what he thought, taking a long drag on a cigarette; the red embers at the tip lit up his face, momentarily defining the creases that rippled out from his puckered lips and into the sagging bags under his eyes, radiating up over his forehead and disappearing into a sparse hairline.

Another man was in the room. Instead of sitting leisurely in the leather armchair opposite, he stood in the darkest corner. His gloved hands clasped together in a forced manner of practiced patience. There was no shadow of fear on the face of the cigarette smoking man. He knew this nondescript man, this Mr. X, better than he would like to admit. The Cigarette Smoking Man's gaze traveled up to Mr. X's shining black eyes. He puffed out a thin line of smoke and, with a grimace, said, "so what news do you bring?"

"It's Newbold, sir." There was little hesitation in Mr. X usually, but this time he waited for a response. It had been a while since this name was uttered. There was no reaction. "He's resurfaced." He said it like driving a nail flush with one final, aggressive swing.

The Cigarette Smoking Man rolled the Marlboro between his thumb and pointer fingers. He thought it odd that a man of Newbold's savvy would ever 'resurface' unless… "In what manner?"

"He was arrested in New Haven." Mr. X's hands stayed clasped as he studied the face. It remained stolid. "The local P.D. picked him up after he broke into the Yale special collections."

"A cry for help, you suppose?" A jagged smile cracked across his face and a thick blanket of smoke tumbled over his chin.

Mr. X's brow curled over his eyes. "He's taken the Voynich Manuscript. The police have yet to locate it, nor have I."

"It's a hoax. That is inconsequential, I think. No. Newbold is looking for a public forum; his idea of protection." The Cigarette Smoking Man uncrossed his legs and leaned forward to tamp the ash into a stale glass of whiskey.

"This is an opportunity to put an end to the Covenant. Newbold-"

The Cigarette Smoking Man froze while withdrawing back in the chair. His expression sour with disappointment, anger, agreement? Mr. X could not read the mask. This was always a defining moment in their meetings, so he waited for the truth.

"No. Give him what he wants. The dog must have his bone, so we know where he buries it." He fell back into a relaxed position and inhaled from the newly lit cigarette with confidence. "Suppose," he puffed out a small cloud, "hmm, Newbold is…" He held the cigarette tip an inch from his eye and watched the smoldering ash as it traveled down the shaft. "This is an interesting opportunity."

Mr. X nodded. He could not keep the resignation from curving his shoulders forward ever so slightly. He had the misfortune of hunting the Covenant. He ran through the details of the mission in his mind as they were clear: all the files scrolled through his memory like microfiche. They are a consortium, of sorts, purporting to predict the future. Their leader was Billy Newbold. They drew the interest of the inner circle, the shadow government, through several counterintuitive acts that placed them at the center of some of the world's greatest events. They either bore witness to or were purported to be connected with such turning points in history like the fall of the Berlin wall or the collapse of the Soviet Union. Hell, a Covenant member was filmed in the Zapruder footage. The Covenant's uncanny timing to bear witness to such markers in human existence put them on the map as a threat to national security. How could they have such impeccable foresight? They had no funding, no assets, no land. They seemed to just know. Their links to history had traced them as far back as the Bolshevik revolution.

"There is power in knowing." The Cigarette Smoking Man's word cut through Mr. X's memories. His vision was focused, again, on the cigarette as it burned closer to the filter. "I want you to leak this arrest. Follow every detail. I want the Voynich Manuscript returned immediately."

"I thought you said it was a hoax and 'inconsequential'."

The Cigarette Smoking Man's eyes narrowed. How dare he think. "The manuscript _will_ be returned. Is that clear?"

Mr. X nodded. "Who should I leak it to?"

The smoke in the room had accumulated around the two men like a low hanging stratospheric anomaly. "We need a believer, wouldn't you agree?"


	2. II

A gaggle of police officers lined the cracked and stained walls of this downtown apartment. Dana Scully crouched over the bent body of a deceased male, early-30's, and she was grateful the door to the studio apartment was propped open. A steady flow of cool spring air wafted out the scent of rotting cat food and moldy books. There was a cafe not far from the apartment that baked the best chocolate croissants in Washington, D.C. Today, Scully thought, was a chocolate croissant day.

She pulled off her latex examination gloves, smoothed out a lock of straight red hair, and promptly spotted the detective assigned to the case. A chocolate croissant and a soy vanilla latte, she thought, would do the trick, although a steak and cheese sub with a side of fries might also work, but it was still breakfast.

The detective finished with a conversation and sidled up to Scully. He clutched a small, ringed pad and pencil close to his chest. "Agent Scully, I wanna thank you for coming down on such short notice."

Resigned, Scully said, "Not at all. I was actually on my way to the cafe for breakfast."

The detective eyed the body and winced at the grotesque curvature of the neck. It was a right angle. "I gotta say, I've never… you know we don't call you unless it's important. This… You know I was talking to the boys over there. They say no sign of forced entry and all."

Scully nodded a sullen affirmation. "Yes, that is quite…" She gestured at the mangled body, "perplexing."

"Clearly he was a hoarder of sort. You know, a real loner. I think…" the detective noticed the other officers watching from the walls. Their expressions dropped to their shoes after Scully, raised eyebrow, scanned the room. Someone get me a Goddamned croissant, she thought.

"I think Scully's hungry," said a tall man cloaked in the shadows just beyond the doorway. Fox Mulder stepped forward into a slant of sunlight that streamed through a torn trash bag hastily taped over a window. He flashed his FBI Agent credentials at the officers. A stubble graced his angular face just below puffy red eyes. "Morning, Scully." Mulder pointed to his face. "Game night with the boys. Langly was on a mean streak with the twelve-sided." He clapped his hands. "So, whaddya got?"

Seeing Mulder in the doorway, unshaven, clearly sleep deprived, but still alert like a little boy in an exotic pet store, Scully felt, deep in her core, an urge to shout him out the room. He was unabashed in his ability to jump to unreasonable conclusions. She was not in the mood to logically dismantle a farfetched theory involving the illuminati or God-knows what-else he may conclude. She watched him stalk about the apartment in silence. Mulder's dark eyes could not hide the brilliance that burned from his being. Mulder's unstoppable desire to understand, to truly get it was infectious. With these thoughts traveling like lightning through a familiar neurological path in Scully's extensive temporal lobe, she cracked a tiny smile at this man-child scratching his chin, absorbing the details that everybody lining the walls missed. Mulder was standing in the middle of the room and examining a stack of old newspapers. She knew he had already formulated a theory as the the goings on of the deceased. She waited.

Mulder looked down and walked in a semicircle around the body. His eyes scanned, back and forth, back and forth as he soaked in an array of information. He knelt down and, with gloved hand, picked up a portion of the beard, revealing the victim's hand curled in a fist. Carefully, Mulder slid a piece of crumpled paper from between the stiff fingers. "Huh," Mulder said. He pulled out an evidence bag from his pocket and dumped the note in. "It's a coupon for cheesesteak: buy one get one free." He handed the note up to Scully.

"What does this tell us?"

"He was crazy."

"Mulder-"

"I mean, who's thinking about cheesesteak in the morning. Nuts."

Scully arched an eyebrow. "This man-"

"His name is Abubakar Qasim, 31," he looked around at the detritus, "and clearly not seeing anybody." Mulder stood up. "The angle of his neck seems a bit severe."

"I agree. I think-"

"He was being kept here, Scully." Mulder walked over to a particularly cracked wall, and pushed gently with his fingertips. He knocked on it lightly.

"Well, this is not his lease. This apartment belongs to a man named Walter Skontsky. We've sent out an APB. Mulder, I must say…"

"Scully are you familiar with Eastern European politics?" He picked up a newspaper from a stack. He showed her the incomprehensive Russian writing that was emblazoned in large splashy font.

"If you're asking, do I read the news: yes." Scully understood there was a rhythm to Mulder's musing. He relished the challenge of inducing realization. He had a bright object to show her, but first he wanted her to guess it. With every fiber in his being, he held back to wait for her to share in the understanding. Scully knew that to him this level of comprehension was nirvana. A pure sense of knowledge that he wanted to share with her. 'Hold my hand for I am the Bodhisattva of crime scene investigation'. This time he pulled at the wrong thread. She knew it true, but he had a routine to complete. She feared he would break down like a beautiful robot if he didn't spin his theory. This was a treat for Scully. She grinned inside.

"So you are aware of the fighting in Grozny?"

"Mulder this man…"

"Is a Sufi mystic. There's the long cloak and the woolen vest that are characteristic of a religious leader in Sufism and, of course, the long beard which has always signified a devotion to a holy path."

"Sufi? Okay, but the facts are…"

"That he was being persecuted based solely on his faith. Check out the back of that coupon."

Scully smoothed out the plastic bag with her thumbs. Scratched into the back of the torn coupon was a crudely drawn sea turtle. She could feel the deep grooves left by a cheap, medium point ballpoint pen.

Mulder leaned in and tapped on the picture. "The sea turtle, specifically, hatchlings are a symbol often referenced in Sufism to extol a Quranic verse of returning to God. This was meant as an insult or," Mulder's brow knitted in concern, but not just for the death of a man. The depth of his empathy reached philosophical levels. This was a situation, as Mulder interpreted, that framed the evil nature of bigotry and ignorance, shaping the darkness rooted in Man's subconscious. He cleared his throat, "or a taunt of some sort. Sufi's are vegetarians, which is a direct interpretation from Muhammed that eating meat was internalizing death."

"Mulder, this man died from blunt force trauma that severed his spinal column from the base of his neck. There is no indication of a struggle and, furthermore, no signs of forced entry."

Mulder knelt next to the broken body, scanning it from head to toe. "Scully, this man…"

"This man," she interrupted. It was time. Scully wanted breakfast. She continued, "Mr. Qasim had a bizarre and rather unfortunate accident."

He looked up at her with bright and curious eyes. "Scully?"

"Abubakar Qasim, died after tripping on his beard, which as you will notice stretches the length of his body." She swept her hand along the length of the corpse.

Mulder nodded as his gaze, again, ran along the body for clues. He noticed that the beard was indeed the longest he had ever seen. Entangled in the man's toes on his right barefoot were hairs that appear to match the beard. "Huh," he replied, scratching the top of his head.

Scully continued, "I know this man is a Chechen immigrant and, judging from his garb he is probably some sort of holy man, but," she stepped to the head, crotched and pointed at a definite skid mark on the floor. Most likely the point of impact.

"Huh, and the turtle?" Mulder's piercing gaze was usually a laser that drilled down into her core, but this time his bloodshot eyes were grasping at straws. Scully returned the glance with impunity and tapped a single staccato note with her toe that suddenly filled the apartment with resolution. Mulder pointed to a tiny satchel that hung around the man's deformed neck. "You're right, Scully. That's probably a pouch meant for holding said," he lifted up a portion of the beard. Mulder removed his examination gloves and continued, "Let's get you a croissant from that place you like and head on over to the Batcave. I got something to show ya."


	3. III

The X-Files were comfortably housed in the darkest corner of the FBI building. That was Mulder's sphere of influence. It's a place categorized, labeled and found at the end of a labyrinth of corridors and bureaucracy that rivaled only the National Security Administration and Department of Defense in both scope and complexity. It was where the sidewalk ended; an unrecognizable footnote in the history of the agency. It's file cabinets bulged with the evidence to support a mission so esoteric and unwanted as to highlight the evident career suicide for any and all associated with the X-Files; and yet, here Scully sat ready to be swept away in another incomprehensible case. She sat: legs crossed, lips pursed, and mind sharpened.

Mulder moved through the stacks and stacks of files, folders, photographs with enthusiasm. His motions were quick and confident. He knew the details of all that cluttered his desk, the surrounding shelves, and every file cabinet in this cloistered space. This was Mulder's temple: one man on a mission. The sermon for the uninitiated would begin with only one in audience. His energy and spiritedness was, normally, infectious. Mulder was engaging and charming and, above all else, a believer. To Mulder, the truth was so strange and complicated and… scary that most chose ambivalence or ignorance so that they could sleep not hearing the bump in the night. Mulder was different. He wanted to shine a light, record and catalogue the bump in the night. He smiled at Scully. Today the mustiness emanating from the back, where the older files sat yellowed on shelves, pushed into Scully's awareness. She wrinkled her nose.

"Ah ha," Mulder pulled a scrap from the heap, rounded the desk, and handed it Scully. He promptly flipped on the slide projector. "Any idea what that is?"

"I don't… It looks like-"

"I'll tell you what it is, Scully." With a broad smile, Mulder clicked to the first slide that displayed a sheath of ancient parchment covered in alien flowers and an incomprehensible script. He clicked to the next slide that showed lines and lines of script, possibly Arabic, with an illustration of several odd looking women in a pool of liquid that flowed from a tubular system of unconnected cylinders. "This is-"

"An LSD trip." Scully blinked at the image. "What is this language? Sanskrit?" Mulder advanced to the next slide that showed pod-like plants connected to a system of orb-like root structure. She felt as if she was looking at a page ripped out of an otherworldly 15th century botanist journal.

"These are pages from the Voynich Manuscript." He clicked forward several images. They all showed variations of alien plants, animals, and foreign writings. "It was discovered by an antique dealer in the 17th century, sold to the Holy Roman Emperor and King of Bohemia, Rudolf II, and eventually fell into the hands of an avid book collector named Wilfrid Voynich at the turn of the century." Mulder handed Scully a slip of folded paper. "The markings and pictures you see here are unknown. The language it is written is unknown, its origin is unknown, and its age is unknown. Wilfrid spent his life trying to decipher the manuscript that compromises over 240 pages of these." Mulder quickly advanced from slide to slide, the strange pages flipping across the screen. Scully's eyes went wide as her brain tried to make sense of the bizarre images. She felt hypnotized by the mysterious pages as they clicked through her mind one after another after another until the screen went white. Mulder put down the slide advancer.

Scully leaned back in her chair and frowned. She peered down at the slip of paper. "That's a nice story, Mulder. Let me guess. It was stolen from New Haven, Connecticut?"

Nonplussed, Mulder continued. "It was donated to Yale in the 1960's. Carbon dating placed the creation of the manuscript around the 1400s. Materials analysis also confirm it as a product of most likely the 14th or 15th century. Many have tried and failed to translate the text, including cryptographers from both World Wars. Ol' King Rudolf believed it a product of a Franciscan friar named Francis Bacon." He smiled. "Say that three-times fast."

"You know that stolen artifacts are not a bureau matter." Scully laid down the folded paper neatly on the corner of his desk."

Mulder's lips tightened in a line. His brow furrowed, which meant, as Scully understood, that it was a Mulder-matter. "That was slipped under my door." She sighed. "Plus it's a short trip."

"Skinner will not approve." Sitting in the bowels of the FBI building, the weight of Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office, on the 8th floor, sat heavy on Scully's career. "This is not a bureau matter."

Mulder had moved to behind his desk. He was already putting on his jacket. "Quick trip, Scully. Come on, you love… uh… you know, Ivy league towns."

Scully couldn't recall actually agreeing to the assignment, but it would appear a mute point as Mulder, after checking out keys for a bureau sedan, twirled them in his hand. He chuckled. Scully felt a sudden need for control as they approached the standard issue black Chevy Impala. "Gimme those." Mulder, without hesitation, slapped them in her hand. "How far is New Haven from here any way?"

Mulder shrugged. "Mm, it's rush hour so I'd say six and a half hours. You know, Scully, this is an ideal time to update you on the parasite sewage mutant we caught last year. I talked to a geneticist at Hopkins that sequenced it's DNA-"

"Tell ya what," she tossed the keys to Mulder. "I think I deserve a six-hour nap."


	4. IV

The air in New Haven smelled sweet with just a touch of brine. Scully inhaled a healthy lung full as she stretched to the sky, creeping toward dusk. Driving through Connecticut in spring was like sitting through a Douglas Sirk melodrama. Wind bellowed through the trees, flipping the leaves back and forth as the landscape of the Northeast transformed in iridescent waves. They had parked on the southwestern portion of the Yale University campus. Mulder led the way toward a modern building of marble and granite devoid of windows that appeared to float on pedestal of dark grey marble. Scully felt its modernarity striking as it was juxtaposed against a backdrop of century old buildings that surrounded the Beinecke Library.

Mulder stopped several yards from the entrance. He looked the building up and down and turned around to examine, what would appear, their path. Scully shook her head in agreement. "No windows. Limited access in and out." She was encouraging Mulder to verbalize the internal monologue that played out behind his eyes. He nodded.

The wind picked up a bit and ruffled his brown hair that was cut close as per FBI protocol. Mulder was a prototypical FBI agent. A man in black: tall, caucasian, nondescript. His face was long and angular. Mulder's ethnicity was, well, put a map of Europe and Russia on a dart board and take your chances. He was handsome in a generic sort of way. He was a standard husband/boyfriend you'd find in a newly purchased picture frame. He was everyman, conveniently. And yet, the depth of his conviction and the breadth of his intelligence made him so much more. He was a brilliant investigator, Scully had to admit, trapped in a facade. It was, most likely, by design that he could blend in so seamlessly. If anything, Mulder was an uber-observer. He was a student of human behavior. The best profiler of violent criminals that had ever existed. And here Scully was, by his side, chasing the paranormal. Mulder opened the door to the library and said with a smile, "Ladies and germs first."

Scully and Mulder stood among the stacks as a woman in a crisp business suit made her way through to greet them. "Dr. Marilyn Detricht, Director of the Beinecke Library branch, how may I assist you?" She extended a delicate hand, impeccably manicured, at Scully. She was at least a foot taller, so her hand engulfed Scully's. After they shook, Dr. Detricht turned to Mulder, looked him square in the eyes, as they were of equal height, and shook his hand with confidence. "I assume," she said with a wry smile, "this has something to do with the stolen manuscript?"

Dr. Detricht walked them through the library and, after expounding on the importance of the special collections entrusted at her branch (ancient texts, rare first editions, so on and so on), she continued unprompted, "I'm not sure why the FBI would be involved. Afterall, the Voynich Manuscript, although ancient and fascinating, is one of the greatest hoaxes in modern civilization. It is a remarkable and elaborate work of fiction." Scully couldn't help noticing as Dr. Detricht nearly pirouetted her curvaceous figure in a pencil skirt to face Mulder at an empty glass cabinet lit from above. You could cut ceramic tiling on those high cheekbones. Scully raised an eyebrow.

Mulder examined the empty cabinet. He knelt to take in the structure. "Are you familiar with Zipf's law, doctor?" Marilyn wrinkled her nose. Mulder stood up. "It states that given some corpus of natural language utterances, the frequency of any word is inversely proportional to its rank in a frequency table. The Voynich Manuscript, if a hoax, would be the greatest in all of mankind. There is a language present in the manuscript and, despite its alien nature, it would appear to have an alphabet all its own."

Dr. Detricht touched her hair. "Frequency table?"

Scully tapped the glass case with her knuckle that startled Dr. Detricht. "What's going on here?"

"Oh, I was just… you mean the glass, yes." She lifted the entire glass off of the case with little effort.

Scully nodded. "Are all the cases like this one?"

Dr. Detricht hesitated. "Yes."

"I see." Scully said with finality. She looked over at Mulder, who shrugged.

Dr. Detricht explained that the artifact was taken during a reception that was hosted at the Beinecke Library. They were celebrating a collection of newly purchased first editions from a museum that had closed in Jerusalem. After reviewing the security footage, the perpetrator was easily located. Scully and Mulder thanked Dr. Detricht for her time. She handed Mulder her business card and emphasized that her speciality was library science, but she had a keen interest in ancient linguistics as well.

Back in the car, Scully buckled her seatbelt and said, "She didn't even lock the case."

Mulder turned over the engine. "Yeah, but she had confidence that appearance would illuminate perception."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Mulder sat a moment and then said, "It means she's grossly mistaken."

Scully shook her head. "Mulder, what is going on?"

They pulled out of the parking lot. "I'm not sure."

"Then why are we here wasting resources?"

"Because I have a thing for Amazonian librarians." Scully pegged him in the arm as he smiled broadly.

On assignment, there were strict protocols that govern the social interactions of partners in overnight stays. This was specific and aggressively monitored. Opposite sex, heterosexual partners were rarely paired. The X-Files, however, was a department that defied category and, therefore, bended the rules by the force of its existence and the nature of its mission. That being said, Scully respected Mulder more than any other associate at the bureau. He was a man whose conviction was absolute, pure, and well-defined. Mulder wanted the truth. He wanted to believe that evil existed. As grey and nuanced was life, Mulder saw the fractals in it, and this colored existence black and white. She feared a moment of naivete was inevitable. Scully needed to protect him. So, that night at a rundown motel in New Haven, Connecticut, Scully knocked on his door. Most assignments Scully had to accept with an open mind. This one was a stretch even by X-Files standards. She needed to know that Mulder hadn't lost his mind. Was this a rabbit hole too deep? There was no answer. She knocked again. Scully put her ear to the door. Nothing.

Dressed in slacks and a loosely fitted sweater, Scully stalked the perimeter of the motel. The complex was comprised of three buildings that sat U-shape around a dirty pool. It was evening leading into late night. She found Mulder still dressed in his suit, staring into the swimming pool that undulated with debris and was still lit despite the brisk weather. He was lost in the fractals. "Mulder?"

Without looking up, "I've been working up the nerve for a quick dip."

Scully smiled as the refracted pool light danced across her petite features. Her face drew a serious line. She flicked her dull grey-blue eyes at Mulder's dark frame.

"I think that it's time to go." He turned. Mulder's features drank up the darkness.

"Okay," Scully folded her arms. "We'll leave first thing in the morning. If we leave early enough, I'm sure Skinner won't notice."

Mulder nodded. He turned around. "You can take the car. I might have some work to send you at the bureau-"

"What?" Scully's hands dropped to her hips. "Why are you staying? This case is a dud!" She didn't mean to shout.

"It's too dangerous. And you're right, to substantiate this case as a bureau matter is spurious at best. But it is an X-File."

Scully could feel her blood pressure rising. "Mulder, what are you not telling me?"

"It's just-"

"And if it's dangerous you'll need back up, so what is it?"

"I don't know anything about Billy Newbold."

Scully tried to pierce the darkness to discern an expression.

Mulder's voice raised a decibel. "He's not in any database at the bureau. I couldn't find a driver's license, bank account, social security number. This guy's a ghost. And yet, somehow, this Billy Newbold has caught the attention of the highest ranking officials of the government. And he was caught stealing a mysterious ancient manuscript that is at the center of no known X-File." He seemed emotionally spent. Mulder wiped a hand across his bottom lip.

Scully pursed her lips. She ran a hand through her red hair. "OK. We both stay. See this through."

"What I'm trying to say is that I don't know what the fuck is going on." Mulder turned toward the night sky. It was a uniform charcoal color. A heavy blanket of clouds obscured the stars and moon. A breeze kicked up, ruffling the edges of Mulder's trench coat. The pool light cut across his profile. Scully made out the deep lines of concern that creased around his eyes. A chill ran down her spine as she realized that Mulder was scared. Scully made a sound to speak, but he muttered, "Duane Barry."

A flash of anger sharpened Scully's cheekbones. She let it pass before she replied, "I'm better now. He can't hurt me. And-"

"I'm… Sorry."

"You did everything you could. Do you understand?" Scully bit her lip. "Hey," she said like a jab.

"Ok." Mulder exhaled. "Let's go meet our mystery man first thing."

She shook her head and turned to leave. Scully felt a warmth touch her heart. She didn't understand it. Scully just let it spread through her body, and it did: to the edge of her scalp and the tips of her toes.


	5. V

The New Haven Police Department was a small red-brick building without windows nestled in a stand of trees just off a busy main road. Clouds rolled across the sky, obscuring color and shadows. To Scully, the air smelled sweet with a hint of mint wafting in despite the two sprawling strip malls that crowded in across the street.

Inside they flashed their badges at the booking officer, who sat in authority at a large desk in an open area room that was dotted with battered grey metal desks. Most sat empty. There were about a half dozen police officers in the room trying to 'look alive' now that suits had entered. An older gentleman in a crumpled suit waded in from a back office. He put a hand out to Mulder, "Inspector Rick Richards." Mulder gave it a one-pump shake.

"Sir, I'm agent Sully and this is agent Mulder." Inspector Richard's large hand folded around her hand. He towered over her.

"F.B.I." Inspector Richard's admired. "Yeah, I didn't get a call from the bureau that you'd be in town."

Mulder's eyes darted around the room. "Inspector Richards…"

"Rick, please." He patted his midsection.

"Rick, what can you tell us about Billy Newbold?" Mulder watched Rick closely. Every detail was being catalogue and analyzed.

Rick motioned for Scully and Mulder to follow. "Well, he's a Caucasian male about five and a half feet tall, small fella, but smart and resourceful." He walked Scully and Mulder out of booking. They continued down a long hall to the detention area.

"How so?" asked Scully.

Rick stopped at the fortified door. He thought a moment. "I don't know. He just seems smart. He sits in his cell cross-legged-like for hours." Rick shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just reading into the situation, but, ya, we don't got much on Billy Newbold. No ID. No records when his name is run. I mean, he seems to exist in the corporeal sense only."

Scully raised an eyebrow. "How long have you been holding Mr. Newbold?"

Rick turned to face Scully. "Well, the judge has ordered us to detain him until we could figure out more information. He doesn't have an apartment in town, so he's a flight risk. Also…" He scratched his chin. "He's admitted to stealing the manuscript and refuses to give it back. So strange."

Mulder's browline raised, "Why is that?" Rick unlocked the door and motioned them in.

They were led into a hallway lined on both sides with six metal doors embedded in crumbling brick work. A fluorescent light at the end buzzed and flickered. The hall was a tight fight for the three law enforcement agents. Rick reached over Scully at the door closest and knocked. "Newbold. Ya got some guests." Scully shuffled aside, so Rick could peer into the small window. Once upon a time there was water damage in these cells. Scully noticed a healthy growth of rust creeping up from the corner of Newbold's cell door. To Scully and Mulder, "He's just sitting there." Mulder nodded.

Billy Newbold sat on the floor in a cross-legged padmasana pose. His eyes were closed. 'Meditation', Scully thought when she entered the rather spacious cell. She looked back at Rick. He winked and said, "He got the deluxe king suite." Scully nodded, not amused. The room was like so many prison cells: metal framed bunk bed with thin mattresses, a toilet, sink and small desk and chair. Scully noted the safety razor and shaving cream. Billy was bald, and, it would appear, freshly shaven. If it wasn't for his dark eyebrows, he would have been completely hairless. He was dressed, Scully assumed, to blend in: solid colored t-shirt and blue jeans. A leather jacket was slung over the desk chair. It was worn with unusual stitching at the seams. Dark tattoos covered Billy's forearms. They appeared to be Arabic in nature, but as Scully looked harder at the symbols, they may have been some form of kanji. Mulder squated to get as close to eye-level as possible. This made Scully uncomfortable. Her hand brushed the bulge of her sidearm. She noticed a deep scar slashed diagonally across Billy's left eye. It opened.

Mulder locked eyes with Billy, who had an extreme case of heterochromia iridium. Mulder blinked at Billy's piercing gaze with the one crystal blue eye and the other black. "The fox," Billy said.

Rick chimed in, "Uh, Billy, this is Agent Fox Mulder and Agent Dana Scully from the FBI. I know it sounds scary, so it's best if you return the manuscript. Once the bureau gets involved-"

Billy tilted his head up Rick's tall frame. "It gets serious."

"Yeah," Rick fumbled. "Precisely, young man."

"Young?" Billy's scarred eyebrow lifted. To Scully, Billy's voice seemed to emanate somewhere in his chest. His lips moved, but not so much for annunciation. It was like watching an old movie with bad voiceover. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet. Billy was a short man, barely taller than Scully, but had broad shoulders and a tapered waist. Scully kept close to her pistol.

Mulder stood up. He turned away from Billy to peer about the room. Impatient, Scully started, "Mr. Newbold, we're here, let's just say, by request. The Voynich manuscript is a valuable piece of history that does not belong to you regardless of your religious or spiritual beliefs." Billy watched Mulder intently as he stepped toward the leather jacket.

"The Voynich Manuscript is the key to everything." Billy said. "It exists to serve a purpose beyond compound interest."

"And what is that?" Mulder asked. He was leaning against the desk, facing Billy. "You say it's the key to everything. How is that possible? The greatest minds in the world have examined it. For all they know, it's a fraud."

"Agent Mulder, you above all else understand there is a battle raging between good and evil. Judeo Christians call it the forces of heaven and hell. Whatever you may label it it ends with humanity's destruction." Scully rolled her eyes.

Deadpan Mulder said, "You know what I understand? You, Billy Newbold, are as big a fraud as the Voynich Manuscript. Let's go, Scully."

"The Cancer Man." Billy blurted out. Mulder froze at the door. Billy continued, "I have seen him in my visions and all of my readings. He comes up over and over again. I do not know who this man is, but he exists as an agent of annihilation. And you, Mr. Mulder, the fox, are a force working against him." He turned to Scully. "And you must be the other." Mulder motioned Rick to unlock the cell door.

In the hallway, Mulder walked with long, contemplative strides. Rick peppered Scully with questions about the encounter. Without saying a word, Mulder exited the station and stood at the car, patiently waiting for Scully. Wind ruffled the edges of his trench coat, as he stood by the passenger door. The trees trembled around the station as the leaves flipped to receive the gift of rain. Rick stopped Scully, "Hey, so what do you want to do with him?" He meant Billy.

"Follow the court order. We'll be in touch."

Scully adjusted the driver's seat to suit her small frame. Mulder had driven to the station. This was how they worked. They anticipated each other's needs. He had to compute, dissect, and analyze the happenings. His face was a blank slate, but Scully could feel the wheels of his intellect grinding through the pathways of assumption and conclusion. As they drove down the main strip, she said, "How did he know about the cigarette smoking man?"

"We need to get back to Washington." He seemed defeated. "We'll head back in the morning." They passed a strip joint. Mulder nudged Scully, "in the meantime."

Scully shook her head. She grinned. "Mulder, what's going on?"

"We were set up, Scully. Billy Newbold is a red herring. His broad strokes conspiracy theory was a shallow rouse. Somebody wanted us out of the way. For what, I have no idea." He looked over at Scully.

"Shit."


	6. VI

Scully packed light when on assignment. She had been on the road so often that she knew what was important. Still, she relished the ritual of packing. It was evening. She had laid out her two suits on the bed. Carefully, she placed them in the bifold insert of the one piece of luggage. Next, she stowed her heels at the bottom. Scully had her make-up bag packed. She placed it in zipped compartment at the top. And that was it. She looked around the room. Her gun and badge sat quietly on the nightstand. Scully closed the case carefully and zipped it shut. She closed her eyes to listen to the stillness. There was a low hum of insects. Light traffic out on the main strip. She could discern the ramblings from Mulder's room through the thin walls. Movie of the week, she guessed. Her cellphone chirped and her eyes popped open. "Agent Scully. He escaped," Rick was breathing heavy. "Sorry, this is Inspector Rick Richards. Billy Newbold escaped. I couldn't get a hold of Agent Mulder..."

Scully's shoulders dropped. "We'll be there in ten." She unzipped her suit case and flopped it open. Shaking her head, she grabbed her badge and gun. "Mulder," she bellowed. She heard the television click off. "Mulder!" She heard him scramble over to her room. He entered without knocking and wide-eyed. "Get your gun. We're going on a manhunt." His eyebrows raised.

When Scully and Mulder arrived there were a handful of police officers milling about the New Haven station and an ambulance. Scully's first impression of the scene was that a fracas between two bowling teams had gotten out of hand and the result was a lot of middle-aged men rubbing the backs of their necks. Inspector Rick stood over an officer who sat on the bumper of the ambulance with a cold pack smooshed against the side of his face. As Scully approached Rick, she heard the officer mumble, 'strange kung fu'. Mulder split off and walked directly into the station. "How'd he get out?" She asked Rick.

Rick shook his head. He flipped his notebook shut and stashed it in the breast pocket of a Jimmy Buffet-inspired short-sleeved shirt. She could smell a hint of whiskey on his breath. Rick nodded again, it would seem, in disbelief. "Well, this here's Larry, the officer on duty. It seems that they were in the process of transferring Billy to another cell when Billy overpowered him." Again, shaking his head. "I know. Surprise, surprise. Any way, Billy stole Larry's keys and gun."

Scully was miffed at the whole explanation. Clearly this was written along her brow line.

"There was a blockage in Billy's toilet and it had flooded. It happens from time to time. So, our procedure is to move the prisoner to another cell and call maintenance in the morning." Scully joined Rick in shaking her head at the stupidity of it all.

"How did Billy get past the other officers on duty?"

Rick grimaced. "He got out the back door." Scully put her hands on her hips. "It's a fire exit," Rick added.

Scully found Mulder in the station, examining the security footage. She watched as a handcuffed Billy Newbold easily evade Officer Larry with quick footwork. Indeed it was some form of martial arts. Mulder looked at Scully and shrugged. Scully said, "how much of a head start?"

"It took the rest of the officers about half an hour to realize what had happened." Mulder replied.

"Perp escapes with a little over a half an hour start in a police cruiser." Scully calculated a timely return of Mr. Billy Newbold.

Scully returned to her hotel room around midnight. Her suitcase lay agape on the bed, neatly packed. She fell next to it face-first. The old springs creaked in agony as Scully's weight sunk into the mattress. She kicked off her shoes and closed her eyes. The walls were rice-paper thin, so she listen to Mulder settle in for the evening. The television clicked on to an info-mmercial about a 'miracle cleaning product'.

It's not often Scully slept well on the road. It's part of her job to deal with nightmares. A lot can happen in the dark, in a strange town, and chasing society's demons. Not to mention that the FBI rarely shelled out for a hotel room that didn't smell like cigarettes and body odor. In New Haven, Scully curled into a ball on top of the covers in her street clothes and dreamt deeply. The case had concluded to her satisfaction. There was the nagging question as to how they would explain the resources spent on a non-case, but that was tomorrow. For now there was the droning of Mulder's television interspersed with an occasional cricket chirp to lull her into a fitful sleep.

Perhaps it was the distant sound, but Scully could not identify the reason her eyes popped open. They shot to the digital clock on the nightstand that read '3:37 am'. Yellow lights scanned into the room through rips in the curtain that speckled the wall opposite. The dots grew brighter and threatened to burn into the wall as a roaring sound filled the room. Scully pushed up and twisted to look at the window. A ray of light caught her grey-blue eyes. She squinted as the wall exploded. The concussive force of a truck exploding through her hotel room knocked her against the opposite wall.


	7. VII

A buzzing sound. It was a dragonfly, Scully felt, hovering in my hotel room, over my head. It was hungry. Best to swat it away. Scully twitched awake in a hospital room flooded with sunlight. She looked down her body. No missing limbs. The buzzing sound was a fluorescent tube dying in a wall sconce just over her head. Her chest was heavy as she inhaled deeply. She coughed. A spike of red hot pain stabbed her brain. Dr. Dana Scully began the arduous task of self-diagnosing: contusions on the chest, possible fractured sternum, and mild concussion. She wiggled her toes. This was taking too much effort, Scully concluded. She tapped the help button.

The trip back to Washington, D.C. was difficult. After she learned about Mulder's abduction, Scully had convinced the medical staff at the New Haven General Hospital that her injuries were not as severe as they had documented. Scully's body felt like glass. The persistent headache was deep and menacing. Hunched against the wheel, she drove along the wind swept country roads that snaked through Connecticut's arboreal paradise. The race was on.

She had phoned ahead to notify Assistant Director Walter Skinner. He was, to put it mildly, agitated at the entire predicament, but reassured her that the country was put on notice. All signs pointed to Billy Newbold as the only suspect. Officer Larry's cruiser was found in a truck stop. Billy had ditched it there and picked up the semi-trailer truck that had obliterated Scully's motel room. The semi was found the next morning abandoned.

Scully had contemplated staying in town, but she had a hunch that other resources were needed. The case had officially derailed to such a degree that it had morphed into a deadly serious affair. Scully may not have Mulder's uncanny powers of deduction, but she did know the first place he'd go for assistance. Scully popped open a bottle of ibuprofen with her thumb and dry-swallowed four pills. Don't try this at home, kids, she thought as the sedan roared down along the highway at eighty-miles an hour.

Somewhere in Washington, DC, Scully leaned against a brick wall early in the morning in a nondescript narrow alleyway. She looked directly into a security camera with her arms crossed. Scully noticed the lens adjust; heard the whir of gears as it presumably focused on her slight frame. A pinched voice spoke through a dented intercom. It said, distorted and scratchy, "State your business, woman." Scully didn't move. "Riddle me this: what is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?"

Scully sighed. "Frohike, if you don't open this door, I'm gonna plaster your social security number all over Georgetown."

The door unlocked with a sharp click. "Hey, Scully," said the scratchy voice.

Scully pushed the fortified door aside and stepped into a dark dwelling. It was a cramped space packed with shelves that sagged heavily with police scanners, computers, high-powered RF receivers, video equipment, televisions, and stacks and stacks of Lone Gunmen newsletters. Frohike, a middle-aged man just tall enough to not be labeled a little person, closed the door behind Scully. He shrugged, in his familiar leather jacket, and said, "Jesus Christmas. I was just joking. Holy Hell, you look like shit."

"Gee, way to make a girl feel special." Scully continued through the shelves. Two shadowy figures stood around a computer in the back. Frohike followed.

"Oh, I'm not saying I wouldn't do you. Did you develop a drug habit or something?" Frohike adjusted his huge glasses.

"Thanks." Scully's persistent headache had tempered to a dull throb.

Byers turned on his heel to greet Scully. A look of concern criss-crossed his bearded face. As per usual, his charcoal grey suit was immaculate and crisp. Byers was a man of indeterminate age. Although he wore a close-cropped beard, there was an unmistakable boyish charm in his pristine blue eyes. The man he was talking too was Byers' antithesis. Langly was Byers inverted: long, unruly blonde hair, dark eyes framed by Buddy Holly glasses, and the ripped _Ramones_ t-shirt. Langly took one look at Scully and smiled. He said, "Hey Scully, wanna be the first Lone Gunmen playmate? Likes include long walks on the beach, puff pastries, and pistol whipping aliens."

Byers reached for one of three metal folding chairs. The cramps in Scully's legs were finally starting to relax. She stood her ground as the story of Mulder's abduction came spewing out. She capped it by popping two more ibuprofen. Now she had to sit. Langly and Byers turned to the computer. Frohike pulled over a chair and sat thinking. The little man crossed his legs on the folding chair and stared off into a middle ground. Langly and Byers were discussing possible sources for identifying Billy Newbold other than the obvious. They had some darknet connections that might be useful. Frohike jumped down from the chair. He turned to Scully, "This guys name was Billy Newbold, you say?" Scully nodded. Frohike shambled off, disappearing into the shelves.

As Langly typed furiously on the computer, Byers asked, "Langly, didn't you and Mulder have a heated exchange about the Voynich Manuscript a while back?"

"Yeah. He swore it was real; some sort of code. I told him it was a load of bullshit. The greatest in history, but still not worth anything. He was all like, 'it adheres to Zipf's law'." Langly snorted, "Please, Mulder's grasp of palaeography is rudimentary at best. I could teach a graduate level course on it. Zipf's law. Amateur."

Scully said, "Funny. Mulder had a similar argument with the librarian at Yale. 'Doctor' Detricht." She couldn't resist the air quotes.

"Perhaps there's some merit to Mulder's argument," said Byers. "Or rather, suppose that this Billy Newbold believes it is a code and, for some reason, Mulder is the key. It seems unusual that the FBI would be interested in such a document. He could see it as justification for his insanity." Scully pointed a finger at Byers as if to say, 'bingo'.

Langly slammed his keyboard. "There's nothing on the darknet."

"Nothing on the darknet, but something in Frohike's extensive rare book collection that Langly recently called, 'antiquated and puerile'." Frohike marched over to Scully and dropped a book into her hands.

Langly swung around, "yeah right. I bet it's less than nothing."

Scully read the title aloud, " _The Voynich Roger Bacon Manuscript_ by William Romaine Newbold." She flipped through the first could pages. "It's dated 1921." Frohike bowed.

"That doesn't prove anything," Langly spat.

Scully handed the book to Byers. He looked it over, chewing on his lip. "Langly, pull up all the information you have on him." He tapped the book.

After just a few minutes, Langly reported, "Okay, Newbold, William Romaine. Born in Wilmington, Delaware in 1865. He was a philosophy professor at the University of Pennsylvania until his death in 1926."

Scully squinted in contemplation. "Did he have any children?"

Byers flipped through the book. "This must be Billy's bible."

After a few fast keystrokes Langly replied, "Yes. He had a son. Also named William. Who appears to have died in 1955. Hold on." He clicked onward. "OK, he had a son named William born in 1925. He passed away in 1985. And there was another William born in 1955. No other records exist beyond that point."

Byers and Scully's gaze met with eyebrows raised. Byers, connecting the dots, said, "So Billy Newbold could be the great grandson of William Romaine Newbold?"

Frohike fist pumped, "print over bytes, baby!"

Scully frowned, "or Billy Newbold is not his real name."

"That's certainly possible," Byers said. "Suppose you and Mulder exacerbated his fantasy that the Voynich Manuscript was in fact a cipher, which is why he abducted him."

Frohike's eyes went wide. "Maybe's he's got a thing for tall, dark, and handsome." Langly shook his head.

Scully sighed, "I complained to Mulder about the triviality of it all. He insisted that he was tipped off by an insider; quite possibly Mr. X."

Byers stroked his beard. "Regardless, it doesn't get us closer to finding their whereabouts."

"Yeah, there's nothing." Langly's fingers moved swiftly over the keys. "Hold on. I'm posting Billy's mugshot on all my forums."

Frohike said, "What if Billy Newbold is actually a descendant of _the_ William Newbold, and he's part of this fanatical group of Voynich Manuscript followers that have cracked the cipher, or at least part of it. And the cipher is the key to future events."

Langly spun around in his chair. "You know what? I'm tired of your nonsensical ramblings, toad-face. We're trying to find our friend, and you're playing stupid games! Why don't you go organize your archaic books, and leave finding Mulder to the adults."

"Toad-face? Listen you four-eyed freak-"

"Guys!" Scully closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "Let's focus, please."

"Langly, search the missing vehicles database in Connecticut." Byers massaged the bridge of his nose. Scully realized that it was early. The Lone Gunmen were not early risers. She must have appeared during an all night publishing session. Silence settled in the room as Langly's soft typing filled the space. Frohike pulled himself onto the chair in a cross legged seat. The look of deep thought quickly melted into a tired slouch. Byers leaned against a shelf, resting his head against a complicated mechanical box. He yawned deep and long. The pain that racked through Scully's body earlier had become muted. She felt guilty for wanting to take a bath, and then finding Mulder. Her watch showed it was about five after nine. Langly was the only one that seemed unfazed. There was a general hum from… from some device, Scully couldn't say exactly, that was the ambiance.

Langly stopped typing. "What the," he said. His hands fell to his side.

Scully looked from a now sleeping Frohike to Langly. Byers leaned in to look at the screen.

"Uh, turn on the news right now." Byers nudged Frohike with his foot. "Guys, seriously, switch it on."

"What's going?" Scully asked.

Byers clicked on the nearest television set. Chaos filled the screen: people running in and out of a plume of smoke as the morning sun struggled to filter through the heavy particulates. There was a general commotion. A woman's weeping cut through the din. "Oh my God," Scully breathed. The lower thirds read: "Breaking news: Office building in Oklahoma City Bombed."

The feed switched to a second camera. It was a wider shot of the unfolding horror. There was a massive building that appeared through the swirling dust. It's floors were exposed. And like the backbone of a macerated carcass only the rear section remained standing. Debris hung from the structure like loose strands of weathered skin over a open ribcage. The announcer said, "I repeat. A bomb has exploded in Oklahoma City, completely destroying the building you see here. That's the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. It housed a number of federal departments."

Byers unbuttoned his suit jacket. "The secret service, social security, and the DEA all had offices in that building."

The camera cut to a closer shot of the action. People smeared with dirt and blood floated in and out of the frame.

Scully was perplexed at the site. "Terrorism in the midwest," she breathed.

"Jesus, that's unusual." Langly said. His glasses filled with the reflection of the dusty madness.

"Probably a homegrown militia. They exist all over the midwest and, of course, the south." Byers now had his hands in his pockets.

Frohike jumped down from the chair. He walked up to the television so close his nose was touching the screen. He spun around. "Langly, are you taping this?"

Langly snorted with pshaw, "of course I am. I freaking tape everything, especially the white noise."

"Go back," Frohike was alert now. His eyes wide with revelation. Langly heaved himself from the swivel chair. He clicked on the monitor next to the television. After switching and clicking through a few machines, Langly stood ready. Frohike turned back to the live broadcast. He searched the screen frantically, checked his watch and said, "Go back about a minute." Langly rewound the tape, watching the timecode carefully, as Frohike switched off the audio from the live broadcast. The second monitor awoke with the panicked scene that they had just witnessed. Frohike watched every detail of the scene and yelled, "Stop!" He leaned in. "Click it back about a second. There!" He pointed. A broad smile crept across his face. "Found Mulder."

"What?" Scully took the lead as the rest of the Lone Gunmen leaned in. There he was amongst the chaos. Mulder. Disheveled and a bit confused, but there he was in Oklahoma City amidst the smoke, blood, sweat and tears. "Oh my God. Mulder."


	8. VIII

Several days passed before Mulder returned home. Scully had been given an advanced copy of the debriefing tape. She clicked her audio tape recorder to playback. There was a hiss and the interview began.

 _Male agent: "Special Agent Fox Mulder, Washington DC bureau, current assignment: X-Files. Can I get you some water?"_

 _Mulder: "No."_

 _Male agent: "Mr. Mulder, we're discussing the incident involving Billy Newbold."_

 _Mulder: "Yes."_

 _Male agent: "Let's start where you and Agent Scully returned to the motel after you had learned of Billy's escape from the New Haven Police Department. What's your first memory?"_

 _Mulder: "I… I don't remember the motel."_

 _Male agent: "Ok. Where does your memory pick up?"_

 _Mulder: "You mean before or after…"_

 _Male agent: "Let's start before the alleged abduction."_

 _Mulder: "Alleged?"_

 _Male agent: "Do you remember the scene at New Haven PD that night?"_

 _Mulder: "I remember being in the car with Scully. We were coming back from there."_

 _Male agent: "Tell me about-"_

 _Mulder: "Is she..."_

 _Male agent: "She's back in DC. She's fine, Mr. Mulder. Now, tell me about your first memory after the car ride."_

 _Mulder: "There was darkness for a while. I was moving. Always moving. Then he turned on a lamp."_

 _Male agent: "Who was that?"_

 _Mulder: "Billy. We were in this container. My hands were tied behind my back. I was attached to a… like a metal rod that was threaded through the container box. I… was sitting in the dark for so long."_

 _Male agent: "Can you recall any sounds or any indication if it was a truck or a train? Was it a shipping container?"_

 _Mulder: "Yes. And it was a… train."_

 _Male agent: "So Billy turns on a lamp and you find that you're handcuffed to the shipping container."_

There's a long pause. Scully can hear slight breathing and the electronic whir of the tape deck.

 _Male agent: "Agent Mulder?"_

 _Mulder: "Yeah."_

 _Male agent: "Was he in there the entire time? Please speak your answers."_

 _Mulder: "I don't know."_

 _Male agent: "Would you like to take a break?"_

 _Mulder: "No."_

 _Male agent: "What happened after Billy turned on the lamp?"_

 _Mulder: "He… He, uh, opened my third-eye of perception, and we saw the future. We saw everything. We saw stars being born. I saw the end of existence, and everything in between."_

Scully rubbed the back of her neck. She could feel Mulder's conviction. It made the hairs on her forearms stand up.

 _Male agent: "Please elaborate."_

 _Mulder: "He revealed the Voynich Manuscript, lit some incense, and used a device to read the document. He read it out loud. It was incomprensible, but-"_

 _Male agent: "You mean, you couldn't understand it because you were impaired?"_

 _Mulder: "No. I mean, the language he was reciting was unintelligible. It was like an ancient dialect long dead like many Native American languages."_

 _Male agent: "How do you know-"_

 _Mulder: "I just do."_

 _Male agent: "Was it the smoke that made you… see things?"_

 _Mulder: "I was tripping balls."_

Scully cracked a smile. She leaned back in her desk chair.

 _Male agent: "Was it the incense?_

 _Mulder: "I think so. I blacked out."_

 _Male agent: "How much time had elapsed?"_

 _Mulder: "No sense of time. When I woke up. He was sitting across from me with all his paraphernalia put away. He put a folded up piece of paper in my front pocket and said that he had predicted a disaster in Oklahoma City. He couldn't tell me exactly where, but it would be huge. There would be casualties."_

 _Male agent: "Did Billy give you a sense of his intentions?"_

 _Mulder: "He's part of the Covenant. It's a secretive group that's existed since the druids. They use mysticism to preserve humanity. Billy warned of a great threat that I've seen first hand."_

 _Male agent: "How do you mean?"_

 _Mulder: "Alien colonization."_

 _Male agent: "Agent Mulder let's backtrack a bit. You say that Billy is part of a secretive group called the Covenant. In your opinion as a special agent of the FBI, would you classify the Covenant as a threat against national security?"_

 _Mulder: "Agent Spender, I don't think that's-"_

 _Male agent: "How mobilized would you estimate the Covenant is right now?"_

 _Mulder: "The Covenant is here to help."_

 _Male agent: "So you're telling me a covert group of citizens that has existed for thousands of years undetected that purport to predict future events is not capable of destroying federal property on a massive scale?"_

 _Mulder: "They, Billy, is one of the good guys. He wanted to show me the process so I could aid in their mission."_

 _Male agent: "We have over 150 casualties. You were conveniently returned in Oklahoma City the day of the bombing with news that the Covenant predicted the disaster. You're telling me they're the good guys? Why didn't they stop it if they knew?"_

 _Mulder: "The process is not perfect. It has holes. This is why Billy needs an ally."_

 _Male agent: "What is the point?"_

 _Mulder: "To preserve human existence against the ultimate threat."_

 _Male agent: "Agent Mulder, it would seem to me that you met the threat. His name is Billy Newbold and he's the leader of the Covenant."_

 _Mulder: "There are threats that you are unaware of. There is a shadow government at work. If you examine my case files, you will find multiple references to the forces working within our government to collude with the greatest threat to mankind."_

 _Male agent: "Aliens."_

 _Mulder: "You think-"_

 _Male agent: "Suppose for a second, Agent Mulder, that Billy Newbold knew about your crusade. He's a resourceful guy. Think about it. All the signs point to Billy and the Covenant as terrorists. They are using you to muddy the investigation."_

Scully sat breathless.

 _Mulder: "I'll take that glass of water now."_

Scully clicked off the playback. Agent Spender made a solid case for the Covenant as a potential target; however, if true, than Billy had set up one of the most elaborate ruses Scully had ever encountered.


	9. IX

Today was Mulder's first day back in the office. Scully had committed the details of his abduction to memory. She reviewed them in her mind as she rode the elevator down to the basement. Mulder was dropped off not far from the bombing. He arrived just moments after the explosion. Although he was a bit weak from being chained to the inside of a cargo container, Mulder was otherwise unharmed. He had minor bruises on his wrists and he was slightly dehydrated. Trace amounts of 5-Me0-DMT were found in his bloodstream. Scully had to dig hard to figure out possible causes. It was most likely due to the inhalation of smoked venom from the Sonoran Desert Toad, a powerful hallucinogen.

Mulder was standing behind his desk. He had pulled several case files out of the stacks, and was rummaging through the loose paper. Scully took in the scene with a deep inhalation. Mulder looked up from his work. He said, with a wry smile, "Did ya miss me?"

Scully frowned. This was a reflex she had developed as a standard modus operandi to Mulder's dry humor. There was a well of satisfaction that warmed her core to see Mulder alive and well. "I'm glad you're back, Mulder, but you're the one who got off easy. I was hit by a truck."

Mulder circled the desk with a piece of folded paper that he handed to Scully in one deft move. "That's the note Billy slipped into my pocket before he dumped me at one of the deadliest terrorist attacks in US history."

"This is nonsense. This… the first line reads, 'empty shadow, April, Richmond, VA'." She handed the note back to Mulder, who carefully refolded it to place in his front pocket.

"Reading the Voynich Manuscript is not precise. It is an artform that the Newbold's have developed over several generations." He leaned over the desk to grab another note that he handed to Scully. "You've got a message from a Kelly Ryan."

Scully's eyes went wide. "She was one of my instructors at the academy." She read the note.

Mulder reached over again to grab a newspaper clipping. "She was probably calling about the mysterious disappearance of a Mr. Patrick Newirth. There was no sign of forced entry. There was just a shadow burned into the carpet on the inside of his apartment door."

Scully shook her head. "What are you saying?"

"I think that Billy Newbold is a good guy. He's written down several events to prove his legitimacy in prognostication. And, I don't think this will be the last we hear from him." Mulder watched her intently. He liked challenging Scully directly.

"You're talking about mysticism. For all we know, Agent Spender was correct in assuming-"

"Spender was wrong. They apprehended two suspects affiliated with a white supremacist group called The Covenant, The Sword, and the Arm of the Lord." Mulder crossed his arms. "Billy is the real deal."

At a loss, Scully said, "He was right about Richmond."

X.

The road stretched out in infinitum. The headlight from the Indian Scout motorcycle was like a flashlight in a voluminous cavern, as the beam stabbed into the South Dakota night. Billy Newbold ignored the pain in his arms and back as he sped ninety miles-per-hour along the deadly straight highway.

Billy had turned off interstate 90, headed north two hours ago. He was bumping along a dirt path that seemed to lead nowhere. He eased to a halt. The headlight washed over a man sitting in a lawn chair out front a dilapidated trailer. A single lamp cast a paltry spill of light just above the door that was held shut with a twist of wire. It was a clear night. Moonlight crept over the low, rolling hills of grass that radiated for miles from the trailer. Billy pulled off his helmet and gazed up at the twinkling night sky. He took in a lung full of fresh Dakota air. It filled his chest and eased the aches from the eleven hour journey from Oklahoma City.

"Sweet ride," the man said. His hulking figure was now standing next to Billy, admiring the bike. There was a reason they called him Ghost Feather. The Lakota man was a giant that whispered when he moved. Billy found it disturbing. "A Scout, eh?"

Billy nodded. "Sorry I'm late." He pulled out a new pack of cigarettes from the inside of his leather coat. "How are they?"

Ghost Feather accepted the cigarettes. He ceremoniously removed the plastic and tossed it into the grass. "Late? When are you Covenant on time? That's your thing. At the right place but the wrong time." He chuckled. The years of smoking had left Ghost Feather a leathery mess. He was forty going on sixty. He popped a cigarette between his lips and, before he lit it, said, "They're fine. She said she wanted to be alone with the pup. Don't think she likes me very much." Ghost Feather lit the cigarette, inhaled, and marveled, "They make damn fine cigs in Oklahoma."

Billy replied, "It's a Marlboro." Ghost Feather shrugged.

Inside the trailer it was a comfortable mess. The trailer was mostly falling apart at the seems, but all of the stuff was organized: dishes were put away, utility cubbies inorder, and no dirty laundry. There was even a vase with freshly picked flowers on the tiny dining table. Billy smiled. Anya hated clutter. She needed order. Her spiritual understanding of the Universe commanded a strict balancing of forces. There was so much out of Anya's control, so she shaped her environment. Billy removed his leather jacket, folded it neatly over a chair, and headed to the bedroom.

In the cramped room at the far end of the trailer, Billy found Anya sitting cross legged on the floor with a chubby toddler cradled in her lap. Anya watched the little one doze. Her long blonde hair was neatly packed in a thick side dutch braid that trailed onto her delicate shoulder. The little boy's chest heaved with every soft inhale. Anya's blue-green eyes met Billy as he pushed into the room. She smiled. Her apple red cheeks shone. There was so much in her eyes. Billy saw exhaustion, triumph, and the purest of love. He witnessed all of these movements in that split second. He caught his breath. "He misses you," she whispered.

Billy nodded. He knelt down next to her. Anya beamed as Billy pecked her on the forehead. He stroked his son's soft blonde hair. "I'm so sorry I'm late. Please forgive me."

Anya tilted forward and rested her forehead against his. She replied, "All is forgiven, my love." Billy trembled. He stifled his tears. He had never felt such a well of love.

"Anya…" Billy wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Sweetheart, I've been exposed. There's no way-"

There was a heavy thud outside the trailer. Billy put a hand on Anya's shoulder as he whipped around. Slowly, he rose to his feet. He crept toward the door. Anya hissed at him. Billy walked silently back into the room. In the lightest breath, she said, "There's a trap door in the floor under the rug."

Without making a sound, Billy removed the rug, unlatched the floor panel, and sunk to the cold earth.

Nestled in the matted grass, Billy army crawled to the back of the trailer. His eyes were still adjusting to the low moonlight. There followed a light clink of glass breaking and the porch lantern went dark. They have a gun, Billy thought. He crawled out from under the trailer. Billy followed the moon shadows around the corner of the trailer. He was startled to find a man in black with his back against the trailer. Billy hadn't expected the mystery murderer to be so close. Ghost Feather lay on his side.

Carefully, Billy rounded the corner toward the mystery murderer's blind spot. His head began to turn as Billy approached, but Ghost Feather twitched and gurgled out response. The man pointed his gun at Ghost Feather. Billy charged him, swiftly knocking the gun from the man's hand. It skittered across the dirt, sliding into a patch of long grass.

After a brief shoving match, Billy realized the mystery man's identity: Mr. X. Billy quickly lost the upper hand as Mr. X deftly maneuvered around Billy's quick attack. Mr. X's hand-to-hand fighting skills were unmatched for a normal opponent. He worked in a few lightning quick jabs that pushed Billy a few feet away. Billy was an agile fighter trained in the art of defense and survival. He jumped back into the brawl. He landed a few choice shots to the ribs, but Mr. X countered with punches and a massive kick to Billy's chest that sent him tumbling to the ground. Like a spring, Billy jumped to his feet. The taste of blood made him feral. He quickly advanced on Mr. X, who stood at least six inches taller. Clearly reach was in Mr. X's favor, but Billy's youthful speed and adrenaline got him in close for some devastating blows. Somehow, Mr. X turned Billy around. He wrapped his long arms around Billy's neck in a classic sleeper hold. Billy saw the world start spinning as his brain lost oxygen. With the last ounce of strength in his legs, Billy drove Mr. X against the trailer hard. His grip loosened enough for Billy to squirm free. Billy charged back in with a one-two punch combo. Mr. X spit blood across the trailer's sheet metal exterior. He slid down the side to a seated position in the grass.

Billy ran over to the tall grass where the gun had disappeared. His head throbbed as he searched frantically for the weapon. He heard a loud metallic snap. Mr. X disappeared or, rather, had gone inside the trailer. "Billy!" Anya shrieked from inside. He bolted into the trailer.

Mr. X, beaten and bloody, stood over a sobbing Anya. His back was turned from Billy, who advanced through the trailer.

Anya pulled her hand away from her now swollen face and yelled at Billy, "Stop!" The little boy woke suddenly. He looked at the large man in black and wailed. Anya's left eye was beginning to close from the massive bruise that spread from her temple across her face. Billy realized that Anya's hands were not curled around the boy. He was not pushed closely to her chest. He did not have his mother's protection.

Mr. X turned. Blood gushed from a forehead wound. It made his black skin slick and shiny. The toddler was helpless in the crook of his arm. A large hunting knife hung limply by Mr. X's side. "I came for the manuscript, but you pissed me off and this is better." He sneered.

"Please. He's innocent in this." Billy reached out his torn hands. "We were going to raise him outside of this war."

Mr. X pointed his knife at Billy. "The manuscript."

"He's not even a Newbold. He's… he's…" Billy's eyes were wide and desperate. Mr. X's steely gaze was frozen on Billy. Defeated, Billy said, "it's in the bike satchel."

"Outside." Mr. X ordered.

Billy walked slowly over to the bike. He suppressed all of the countermeasures he was currently running through to disarm and murder Mr. X. There were several options, but none kept the toddler free from a gruesome death. He followed Mr. X's direction. He reached into the satchel and pulled out the manuscript. It was stuffed in a large manila mailing envelope.

"Show it to me." Mr. X insisted. Billy complied. "Put it back in the satchel. Now, keys."

Billy froze. "I'll give you the keys, but first you give me Gibson."

Mr. X frowned, "Billy, I'm no monster, but I will do what's necessary. The keys, Mr. Newbold." Billy tossed him the keys. "You called the boy, Gibson."

Billy exhaled, "He's not going to be raised for the Covenant. The secrets, everything, dies with me. He will carry the namesake of his mother. Gibson Andrew Praise."

Mr. X closed his eyes a brief moment. Perhaps it was the beginning of a concussion. He refocused, removed a syringe from a pocket, and stuck Gibson in his arm. The boy instantly slumped forward like a sack of potatoes. "I need you to go back into the trailer."

"Gibson stays-"

"This isn't the end for Gibson, but I'll make it the end for him if you don't get in that goddamned trailer now!" Mr. X's jaw tightened.  
"I can't do that." A tear rolled down Billy's cheek.

Through gritted teeth, Mr. X said, "I need you to go back in, or I will murder Gibson and," his fist tightened around the large knife as he pointed it at Billy's chest. "I will slit Anya's throat from ear to ear, and you will watch as the last breath drains from her body." The whites of his eyes shone bright as they locked on Billy. "This is not the end for Gibson. This is not the end."

Billy stepped into the trailer with his shoulders slumped. He closed the door and listened as the motorcycle roared to life. Anya yelled. Her cry was a primal shockwave directed at the heavens. It came from her gut and shook Billy's molars. Tears mixed with the blood of multiple open wounds. The windows in the trailer vibrated, trying to contain Anya's feriouscity. Billy curled around her like a soldier diving on a live grenade. They cried until exhaustion over took their broken souls.

The next morning Billy woke at the first light of dawn. He put on his leather coat and exited the trailer into the brisk spring air. His body throbbed all over. He was pretty certain something was broken. He shook the cobwebs from his mind, and began the methodical process of saving Gibson. Ghost Feather was gone. He was glad to know that the silent giant had survived.

Billy knew how to evade Mr. X. He didn't know how to find him. He was so confused because he had been careful. Mr. X was a man of enormous resources. Still, how he tracked down Billy in a remote section of South Dakota was a mystery. He had to start off now or it may be too late. Billy zipped up his leather jacket and marched into the long grass. He let Anya sleep. She would understand. It would take a day or so to find civilization. He was a patient man. He was a man without friends and associates. He was a loner by birth. Now though, Billy needed all the help he could get. Billy brought out Mulder's flip phone from his jacket pocket. He powered it on. No signal. He navigated to the contacts and stopped scrolling at Scully.


End file.
